


It's the Jeffrey Archers, I'm afraid

by Eturni, Eturnis cursed works (Eturni)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Attempted Harriet Dowling/Brother Francis, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Babies, Board Games, Crowley's Throne, Discorporated Aziraphale (Good Omens), Discorporation (Good Omens), Kidnapping, Manipulation, Masturbation, Multi, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, OLHTS made me do it, Selfies, Shadwell is just straight up gone, Under-negotiated Kink, Uniform Kink, cock blocking, covert photos, foraging gone wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23949340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eturni/pseuds/Eturni, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eturni/pseuds/Eturnis%20cursed%20works
Summary: A series of cursed works from weekly prompts at a discord server. These may tend to get a little wild.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Brother Francis & Harriet Dowling, Harriet Dowling/Thaddeus J. Dowling
Comments: 37
Kudos: 43
Collections: The Not-Very-Nice and Anatomically-Inaccurate Prophecies of OLHTS





	1. Second Time Traitor

**Author's Note:**

> After Armageddon didn't Crowley continues to keep in touch with the major players. Part of this includes a board night game every couple of months which Aziraphale turns out to be surprisingly good at.
> 
> A/N  
> So apprarently I have another set of crackfics now?  
> Everything exploded a little bit (because discord, and fandoms, yaaay) and catch me at getting the chance to be a less than angelic traitor and choose up random prompts to run with.

It was five years after Armageddon failed to show up on the horizon and Crowley, reluctant social butterfly that he was, had managed to keep in contact with most of the major human players. Shadwell had, for what it was worth, moved on to his eternal reward and the rest of them made very occasional efforts to meet up. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s favourite thing as he loved in a general, rather than specific hours together with the same people, sense. Though it did only stand to rights that one would keep in _some_ contact with the person whose body you’d briefly inhabited, not that there was too much precedent around the manners of it but it certainly seemed fitting.

And of course Crowley enjoyed people. He enjoyed the _mischief_ he could incite in people. In that, he and Anathema were a harrowing pair constantly attempting to one up each other. So that had led them to Jasmine Cottage on a very rainy day in March with dear Newton’s choice of activity.

The glee Crowley had shown at the words ‘Board Games’ should have concerned Aziraphale far more than it had but Aziraphale only had vague knowledge of the more common children’s games. He knew to outright refuse Monopoly, but thought nothing of it when a massive box was brought from out of the _gaming shelves_ with the words Dead of Winter on it.

Surprisingly enough, by the time they were an hour in it was Crowley who was sitting annoyed at the table, bouncing his leg with impatience at the convoluted rules. Aziraphale himself had taken a quick flick through the rulebook and acquainted himself with the most pertinent aspects of the game, slightly morbid as it was.

What was wholly, beautifully ironic was that Aziraphale had found himself the traitor. And a cult leader to boot, if he won. He was certain that there was some sort of vindication happening in Heaven.

Of course, the glorious thing was that Aziraphale was by now an adept at not showing his hand and Crowley was very aware that he could very rarely lie to the demon’s face. Luckily he had evaded suspicion with a few careful choices and being magnanimous in offering up items to other players who needed them despite Newt’s gentle reminders that any one of them could potentially have the betrayal card. Aziraphale only gave his best angelic smile and reminded him that by luck of the draw they could all also be completely innocent.

Of course, his time was almost up. But that didn’t matter. It was too late. They’d come up against an impasse where none of them could rightly win and Anathema simply had too many survivors. It was a shame, it was, the survivor that had to be sacrificed. Nobody had batted an eyelash when drunken mall Santa had been sacrificed to the greater good. This, it seemed, was a harder decision.

“I said, I rummage.”

“Look you can’t. Anathema’s turn’s already up and we can’t leave little Sparky to an overrun site.” Newt blanched a little, precious boy that he was.

“Well if we don’t make our food for the crisis we all lose this turn. We simply couldn’t clear enough waste in time. It _has_ to be done.”

Newt pursed his lips, still looking torn. The look shifted to a pout when Anathema gently handed over a rummage token with an only slightly sardonic “He’s a good dog, I’m sure he’d have wanted to help.”

Aziraphale for his part was doing a jolly good show of looking disappointed that he hadn’t received a food token from the ‘last, desperate’ move. Crowley was starting to look at him in that calculated way so he dialled it back and merely shook his head sadly. “There’s one more… what difference could it make? At least at the grocers we’ve half a chance of getting two food in a single card.” He pointed out.

Newt sighed in defeat and handed over another noise token as Anathema rubbed at his back as consolation.

Aziraphale pursed his lips and shook his head. “One.” He assured them, adding it to the pile as though it would make any difference.

Anathema rolled her eyes a little and took the game in hand while Newt mourned the loss of Sparky. The three rummages did indeed do enough damage to take out the dog. The crisis was lost and the game with it.

Aziraphale tried to hide his glee as he put his own card down, though there was enough of a wiggle that Crowley was already declaring him a “cheeky bastard” before he’d even read the win conditions.

“I’m sorry, as it turns out I have some skill in being a double agent.” He shrugged with a grimace that was far too pleased with itself. If he was honest, he thought Crowley might just look a little bit pleased with him too. At least until the tirade about the dog started.


	2. Call barring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this is Misadventures with Technology. Crowley has been taking sneak-snaps of his angel for his spank bank. Nothing new or particularly harrowing there, right? Add in the fact that Hell often contacts through the nearest piece of technology and things may go worse than expected.

It was Crowley who had pushed for getting the ball rolling with selfies. Ostensibly this was for pride, lust, jealousy: a veritable litany of sins and wrongs. What it had _actually_ started out as was something much more evil and yet something he could not tell another living soul or soulless creature.

Granted, they would have got their eventually. Humans thought a lot of themselves and always had something like the selfie. He’d just helped it along. He remembered very clearly and with a slight thrill of adrenaline through his gut what it had been like to have Aziraphale turn to him, phone camera app open and everything, to ask what he was doing.

How was he supposed to admit that Aziraphale wrapping his tongue around the last bits of Chantilly on a spoon was something he _needed_ to ensure remained in the world forever. Preferably in his pocket and where he could get to them every second of every day? So of course he’d leaned back all casual in his chair and explained that his own hair was looking particularly good that day and that his followers on Instagram deserved the blessing of seeing him that way.

Aziraphale had given him a wry look, that Crowley sharply angled the camera to catch, and said something about Crowley being a blessing to the humans that made something hopeful squirm in his aching chest. Other than that, though, he had immediately dropped it.

Since then the demon had taken to regularly getting selfies in the middle of their clandestine meetings. It was a risk, such a stupid risk, to dare to have those pictures on him. It was also terribly wily of him; sating his lust and focussing an angel into the thrusting tip of it without his counterpart any the wiser.

The original was one of his favourites, though his skill at sneak-snaps had improved considerably then. Luckily, not knowing any better, the picture tended to increase in quality as each new phone’s camera did and so was currently deliciously detailed as Crowley sat with one leg splayed over the arm of his throne absently palming his jeans.

He rocked into the careful pressure of it as he looked over the picture; eyes following the sweep of Aziraphale’s tongue as it curled back inwards, coaxing the cream onto the firm, seeking meat of it.

Having the image made the memory of it so much sharper, so clear that he could perfectly recall the way Aziraphale’s tongue had looked retreating into that warm mouth. Could still hear the low rumble of satisfaction that was echoed by Crowley’s own moan as his hips canted up; the scrape of the zipper uncomfortable in the best way as his dick strained against the pleasure. The smallest bit of punishment for the very hedonistic things he did with his angel’s pictures behind closed doors.

He squeezed absently around the stark line of his erection, fighting not to let his eyes flutter closed and to remain focussed on the picture even as desperate breath stuttered out of his lungs in a low whine. The dark of Aziraphale’s tongue pressed just right against the fork, lips barely clear of the tip of the tines and reaching with all of Aziraphale’s insatiable need to be satisfied by food.

All of Crowley’s insatiable need to be satisfied by lips and tongue swirled just right and so hungrily around the tip of his cock.

“Shit...” He cursed, looking down for just long enough to pay cautious attention to the teeth of his zipper as he let his cock arch up, suddenly free. Precum was already gathering eagerly at the tip as he bit one sharp canine down against his lip and took himself in hand.

When he looked up to his phone again Aziraphale’s image had moved.

He had spent… let’s just say _time_ , a not inconsiderable amount of time, looking at that picture and Aziraphale’s face had definitely moved.

Was moving.

Was _turning_ to look at him; his usually cheerful eyes flat and mirthless. Crowley felt cold fear slither down his spine and something almost like shame settling into his stomach as he wondered how Aziraphale had found out, and more importantly how he was doing this.

“Crowley,” the deadpan voice of Dagon emitted from his phone, Aziraphale’s lips shifting perfectly (terrifyingly so) to form the word. They had a million times before and despite the smudge of cream now across pink lips Crowley could find nothing but horror in the sight. “you are overdue for your quarter-century evaluation. Fill out the necessary forms to make your appointment within the next fur to six years or expect some time at the pit to ensure that you remember who you answer to in Hell.”

Crowley gulped. He desperately wanted to say something. His first choices were _I absolutely fucking am not_ with perhaps a balance of _what the fucking Heaven are you doing inside that particular photo and why the fuck now?_

Instead all that came out was a strangled series of sounds as he felt any arousal trying to flee at that voice and yet some part of him doggedly feeling a rush of some dark, urgent need that twitched to life at Aziraphale’s eyes looking out at him with such gleeful promise of pain.

_Look, God, if you listen at all any more **please** don’t let this awaken something in me._

Thank Satan Dagon seemed to find this an appropriate enough response and left with another impatient scowl and the reminder that they would be expecting the paperwork. Apparently, luckily, none the wiser about exactly what image they had appropriated in sending their message.

Crowley had no idea if he’d ever be able to wank to that picture again. Crowley dearly hoped that he couldn’t.


	3. The real housewives of London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone without her husband and with no Nanny Ashtoreth to confide in for the night, Harriet invites the garder up to her private rooms for a glass of wine and a whine about her husband. Could a woman in that situation have ulterior motives? Could an angel figure it out quickly enough if she did? And how much exactly _does_ Tad Dowling know about that side of his wife? All this and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this week is:  
> How about the **Dowlings,** eh? I dunno, could be fun. Big ol' estate, spooky goth Mary Poppins for a nanny, ol' bucktooth saint of a gardener, and who KNOWS who else on staff. Awful big estate for just an ostensibly single mother and her boy...
> 
> We all know the Dowlings have their problems and I'm not at all sorry for any of this.

Brother Francis sat tapping a nervous finger at the rim of his glass even as he settled into the relative luxury of the small chair in Harriet Dowling’s private room. The lady of the house herself sat opposite him on a small couch, half draped with the relaxation that had come of her second glass and every so often patting at the seat next to her in a gesture that Francis carefully pretended to not see.

He rather wished that he had a way of getting himself out of this situation without being rude but the only excuses his instincts were giving him right now were along the lines of _I need to be almost anywhere else but here right now_ , which he did not imagine would go down particularly well.

“You know” Francis looked up sharply at the sound, shaken from his reverie “I think it’s so unfair that Tad could be back in England and I’m still left so lonely. Don’t you? He’s barely in the country and when he is I’m here on my own instead of with my dear husband’s arms wrapped around me.”

She may be lamenting loudly enough but Francis tried bravely not to purse his lips too much as she topped up her glass again. Given how little she cared for his presence sober he could only imagine it was the wine making her so sentimental. He could hardly understand why she didn’t take a lover, as so many in her situation did. It may even perk her up into being a little more attentive with Warlock. Not that he could actually _suggest_ that, as a good Christian gardner.

“Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t mean no harm by it, pet. I mean, Mrs Dowling ma’am.” 

The woman let out a slight huff of a laugh around the rim of her glass, red lips stretching into a mirthless smile. “Well, that’s exactly it isn’t it? I don’t think he _means_ anything where it comes to me. It’s enough to make a woman feel completely undesirable.”

There was a heavy sigh, perhaps a little _too_ put upon and not for the first time this evening Brother Francis wished it wasn’t Nanny Ashtoreth’s day off. She’d complained of Harriet’s theatrics before but he hadn’t been at all prepared for what it would be like to sit through a bout of her marriage complaints himself. Perhaps he’d get Ashtoreth a little something nice on nights where she had to go through this. For all she was a demon, the woman was obviously a saint to go through this and Francis felt a swell of sympathy for her situation.

With great care Francis got up and took himself over to sit on the arm of the couch, placing an awkward hand on Mrs Dowling’s shoulder. “Oh now I’m certain that’s not the case. I’m sure, a lovely woman like yourself, he finds all sorts to be interested in. He’s just so set on his work, he is. Are you really certain you wouldn’t prefer one of the ladies n staff to be here? I’m sure they’d appreciate so much mo-”

In the time it had taken Francis to look away towards the door as though one of the staff might save him Harriet had apparently put her glass down. Francis found this out when his own hand was moved from her shoulder and gripped firmly between both of Harriet’s.

“Oh, that’s so very sweet of you to say,” She shifted closer along the couch until her knee brushed Francis’ leg and very suddenly awkwardness shifted into discomfort “I’m sure a man with a taste for natural beauty, such as yourself, would see me as desirable.”

“Well, I, uh-” Francis carefully tried to extricate his hand, the start of panic in the back of his mind as Harriet’s face began to fall, the beginnings of smething like tears in her eyes “well of course. You’re just lovely, though naturally that wouldn’t be for me to say, of course, as your employee. And… and given that I’m happily married as it were.”

“Married?” Harriet’s voice was just a little sharper than the drink-dulled drone it had previously held as she looked him over. “I never saw a ring, I didn’t think-”

“Well, to the church you see.” He amended quickly, gaze now searching earnestly at the door.

By some show of providence footsteps finally sounded down the hall and Francis held is breath, hoping that someone would approach and give him an out.

When Thaddeus’ brash voice carried through the house Harriet grasped at Francis’ hand again, almost painfully. When he turned to her she looked positively haunted. “Oh, not Tad.”

Francis smiled thinly. “Well, it may give the both of you some time to talk ma’am. I probably ought as not take my leave so you both can enjoy your evening.”

He tried to pull away only to find perfectly manicured nails digging into his flesh. “No, he can’t find you here. Tad, he gets jealous. I… he might fire you. Or, or-”

Francis deflated at this. There were still years in which to influence young Warlock, and she did seem so upset even if something about all this felt a little layered on thick. “I… Well what would be the best thing to do ma’am? I wouldn’t want anyone in trouble.”

The second he acquiesced Harriet was already pushing Francis into the other room. “My wardrobe, quickly. He’s got no reason to be in there.”

“Are you sure? I mean this all seems rather unnec-” The door was closed on him as Harriet rushed back into the adjoining room and greeted her husband with an enthusiasm that was falsely bright even by Harriet’s standards.

Francis sighed to himself, embarrassed at how he had somehow found himself in this mess and wondering what anyone might thing if they could see him now. Huddled in a lady’s wardrobe from her jealous husband. It read like a harlequin romance. He could just imagine Crowley laughing at him now. He’d get joy from it for centuries.

Oddly enough the thought of it soothed him a little as he stood awkwardly in the walk-in. It distracted a little from the raised voices outside which he was trying to ignore unless it got to the point he may need to smite Thaddeus Dowling. 

He was so caught up in the imagined image of Crowley looking over his glasses at him with a smirk and some quip or other about how blind he could be when the bedroom door burst open. He was instantly alert. The sound had been none too gentle and he could only imagine what-

“Tad, what has gotten into you tonight? I _like_ it.”

He’d pushed the door open just far enough to try and spot if Mrs Dowling was in danger only to spot her being pushed down onto the bed, one leg artfully thrown over her husband’s hip. Her neck was bared for him where he was kissing into it with possessive abandon and Francis became quite aware that Harriet had turned her head just perfectly to look towards the wardrobe and _lock eyes with him._

The cold rush of indignation almost had him storming out of there immediately, consequences be damned. 

The only thing stopping him was the sudden realisation that _Thaddeus_ was muttering about how _naughty_ she was as his fingers pushed up the edge of her skirt and found the tops of her stockings. Francis very suddenly did not want anything to do with walking out into the middle of whatever was happening.

He pulled back from the wardrobe door, a second too early to spot Thaddeus also staring towards the open edge of it with something hungry in his gaze. Whatever he decided from what he saw, there was a high moan from Harriet moments later and the starts of rustling fabric.

Francis cringed from his place. This was mortifying, awful. She hadn’t even had the decency to _prearrange _it with him if this was how she dealt with her husband’s lack of attentions. It was just plain rude! Also, _also_ terribly uncomfortable.__

__He used a small miracle to block out sound from the room, deciding to just give them an hour (generous, he believed, given Thaddeus’ general self) before attempting to see if he could slip out._ _

__Which meant when the door was rolled open firmly he was completely unprepared. Less so for the demon at the other side of it, looking to him with a raised eyebrow and- oh, and talking!_ _

__“appreciate if the next time you don’t rope this poor innocent man into your little roleplays. It’s quite uncalled for from the both of you.” The usual soft brogue of Nanny’s accent was clipped as she looked over Harriet and Thaddeus like misbehaving children._ _

__For their part the two of them looked a little chastised but mostly just shocked at the intrusion even as Ashtoreth firmly took Francis’ hand and led him out of the room, her own head held perfectly high despite the stumbling gardener at her heels._ _

__She didn’t stop until they were in a clear part of the hallway. “For Satan’s sake angel, what were you doing in there?”_ _

__“How did you find me?”_ _

__“I… Well it hardly matters. I needed to update you on something and when I couldn’t find you Letty said that she’d seen Harriet take you up with a bottle of wine.” Ashtoreth lied, much more smoothly than Crowley was usually able to. Aziraphale was in trouble. Of course she’d found him._ _

__The way that Francis softened at that; a little bit of the angel coming through that silly altered façade. Even a stern nanny couldn’t help but feel her heart skip. “You are a wonder, miss Ashtoreth. Perhaps a bottle of wine of our own, and I can go through it with you? I think you rather deserve a little pick me up any time Mrs Dowling has one of her nights in with you from now on.”_ _

__Francis presented his elbow and Ashtoreth took it with the curl of a smile. “Well, I couldn’t see the harm. Lead on.”_ _


	4. Throwing onesself downhill in pursuit of a wheel of cheese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's travel week. It's also Spring Bank Holiday. Have the cheese roll downhill in the honour of the one we can't have this year.

Crowley could, quite comfortably, call himself an expert traveller. He had travelled by ship, plane, horse, cart, palanquin, piggy back, wing and (on one memorable occasion) drunken skateboard. He travelled for business, pleasure, playing the hero for his dear angel.

The point being, that Crowley had travelled almost every which way for myriad reasons. On a slightly sunny day at the spring bank holiday Crowley found himself preparing to travel very quickly indeed down the side of a very steep hill in pursuit of a wheel of cheese.

He was in Brockworth, casual tee stretched tight across his torso and a swagger to his hips as he followed a group of slightly sozzled competitors out towards Cooper’s Hill.

He’d decided, in his infinite wisdom, that a hard won, once a year offering of a huge wheel of double Gloucester would make a pretty good little present for his angel. Not to mention that, while he was at it, he could get some very drunk people to do some very stupid things and ruin the whole day for themselves and others. Maybe even get it cancelled if they had enough in them to tempt.

He got to the top of the hill, heard the explanation of the race organisers. He honestly half expected it to basically be just “the cheese will go on my first whistle. Idiots, you will go on my second whistle” but apparently there were actual rules to take into account Barely, but they were there.

Crowley zoned out a little, looking down at the hill in front of him with the faintest sense of trepidation. He always had a quick miracle to prevent him from getting any broken bones but it was actually a lot steeper than he’d imagined.

He was considering turning around and just miracling the cheese for himself later (cheating was just as demonic) when he caught the faint but obvious scent of sewer. Up on a hill in the middle of nowhere.

He turned and caught Hastur striding towards him, oilslick eyes unpleasantly alight and the hint of maggots wriggling themselves through a tear in the shoulder of his jacket. Hard to tell if they were coming up through the skin or just incubating beneath the clothes Neither option made Crowley want to vomit any less.

“Duke Hastur, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked tightly, the most sarcastic of flourishing bows as the other approached despite his heart already hammering in his chest.

“Crawley,” he sneered, looking down at the steep run ahead of them “came to see what you were playing at. No temptation due out here in the middle of piss off nowhere and yet you’ve dragged your sorry arse out. Trying something else stupid just to see how it goes?” He asked, eyeing a couple of the drunks with a hungry look that Crowley guessed was the question of how loud bone would splinter if he went backwards down the steep side just now.

“Just seeing about getting an old English pastime banned. You wouldn’t get it; it’s about cultural roots and low level discontent and railing against bureaucracy and the kind of people who use _PC brigade_ unironically. Bit below your paygrade, getting in the humans’ heads.”

Hastur’s sneer turned up slightly, a low giggle rising that the competitors seemed to like about as much as Crowley did. “Think I’ll stick around then, see what you’re about.” He grinned, before taking himself _to the starting line_ and actually getting ready to run.

What was a demon supposed to do? He couldn’t let _Hastur_ of all people win!

And so, minutes later, Crowley was throwing himself down a hill after a rolling cheese wheel; his own slight cries of terror nothing next to the shrieks of one of the dukes of Hell. He almost lost himself at one point, went on a full snake roll, and barely got back onto legs without breaking his ankle.

At the end of it all, though, he had a wheel of cheese clutched in his arms and even gleefully snuck in a miracled fight between two of the runner ups right in front of Hastur which he used to make a hasty exit. Thought he might buy some crackers on the way home.


	5. Field guide to foraging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This week's prompt: Accidental Discorporation
> 
> Aziraphale had kept his body in top condition for almost 6,000 years. Had, in fact, only been discorporated once; very early in his time with the humans. Even someone with angellic knowledge on safe roots, berries and muschrooms can get it wrong every now and then.

Aziraphale had kept his corporation in tip top condition for almost 6,000 years. Almost being the operative word. Aziraphale also enjoyed the finest foods that he could where possible and revelled in the marvellous, often ridiculous, feats of gastronomy that humans came up with. Oddly enough these two observations were not mutually exclusive.

You see, the one time that Aziraphale had been discorporated it had been in service to saving the entire human race from being poisoned to death. Given that the angel would never tell the story himself there was naturally nobody to point out that “the entire human race” had, at that moment, consisted entirely of three people.

The apple, for all the insight it had given Adam and Eve, was the knowledge of good and evil. It had not been the knowledge of what plants would kill them and hurt the whole time. Their whole time sheltered (trapped) in the walls of Eden everything around them had been for their benefit. Everything had been safe for them.

When Aziraphale caught up to the both of them three days after being discharged from guard duty he found the pair of them feverish and moaning in pain as they curled around themselves.

The miracles to extract the illness were careful and precise; making sure to focus on blocking passage through the umbilical cord while he worked on his healing. He could remember even now the terror wondering what would happen if they died so soon after leaving Eden. All because no one had thought to tell them, _he_ had never thought to tell them, that keeping the same meat for three days through the desert was dangerous.

The moment came as a sharp shock to the principality who started to truly understand what it meant to have explained nothing of how nature worked outside of a place where everything had been artificially pleasant and safe. Just hand over a flaming sword, tell them _mind how you go,_ and hope for the best. Foolish, really.

Naturally Aziraphale took it upon himself to learn as much about human bodies and what was safe for them as possible. It helped that there was at least _some_ instruction from Heaven to ensure his own corporation was cared for even if it was spotty at best given the miraculous nature of his own existence.

The years spent wandering in the wilderness searching for somewhere safe to set down more permanent roots gave Aziraphale ample opportunity to learn. When Eve fell pregnant a second time Aziraphale became, if possible, more protective and paranoid around food. It was what saved them in the end, and what caused Aziraphale his first and only discorporation.

They had been walking all day towards an area that Eve thought had potential as a homestead and Adam had spent much of the time talking about his ideas to encourage the animals who were less afraid of them to stay close by. Perhaps use them for labour or food.

Aziraphale had been listening somewhat distractedly. Of course, he had made the point that any of them would have to be safe around Cain and the newborn but Adam’s enthusiasm was somewhat infectious and he was certain the two of them had enough sense of things by now to be careful.

It was as they were walking that Aziraphale found the bush. A slight wiggle of excitement went through the angel as he pilfered a good handful of his own before harvesting the rest into the testing bag. He was certain of himself but it never hurt to be careful where mortals were involved, after all.

That being said he barely hesitated as he popped a couple of the berries into his mouth, tasting the sweetness burst over his tongue as he bit into them with a low sound of satisfaction.

“Have to be very careful with these ones, you see,” he held up another of the berries to the warming sunlight before popping a couple more into his mouth. “They can be dangerous if not allowed time to fully ripen but black nightshade are simply delicious. Of course, they have an extremely dangerous and naughty little cousin, but none of those grow out in these parts.”

He was through another few of the berries before he realised that the light was starting to sting his eyes; a headache growing at the back of his head. He motioned distractedly to the other three, begging for a short rest to gather himself. He hadn’t really had much to eat aside from snacking on a few berries, you see, and was probably just a little faint. Which naturally meant it would do to make sure Cain was fed. Growing boys needed their fuel after all.

He distractedly finished off the rest of his handful of berries at once, licking the leftover juices from his fingers as he considered the dried meat he might try to pad it out with. Oddly enough despite not eating much he wasn’t feeling terribly hungry. More thirsty than anything, throat dry as the dickens even though he didn’t need to drink. He’d only really become used to eating after testing out so much of what the humans had.

“You know… I wonder if something might be wrong…” He murmured.

When he looked properly Eve’s concerned face was looming close, worry etched over every inch though it was all a little fuzzy. “Yes… You aren’t speaking properly. Or looking well,” she agreed. “What do we do?”

Of course, it was at that moment that Aziraphale spotted a flutter of black wings in the distance, too large to be any bird of prey and very much like a certain demon who he should not want to see. He felt his heart give a lurch regardless.

“I… you should get out of here. Go, keep yourselves safe. There’s a demon.” He warned. From the confused seconds it took for Adam and Eve to string the sentence together he got the feeling he still wasn’t speaking quite right.

Still, the urgency seemed to do something for them and when Aziraphale shoved the bag of food at them unceremoniously they caught the idea well enough; moving away from the resting point.

The headache was growing and Aziraphale’s mind felt too fuzzy to string together a miracle. He only had one chance and that was relying on the kindness of a demon who had every reason to finish him off. Stupid, really.

It didn’t stop him from wandering deeper into the trees, chasing the flash of black feathers, the teasing hints of deep red, and the tripping of his heart whenever he thought of the occult being he was chasing. He knew the other’s name was on his lips as he stumbled through the trees; at once an entreaty and a reassurance to himself.

Crawly was there.

Of course, when he came free of the poisoned flesh of himself he saw the hallucinations for what they were. Terribly embarrassing, really, to chase the vision of a demon down in a vulnerable moment. To have mistaken the attack on his heart’s rhythm for the gentle skip of some more forbidden feeling. Ridiculous. He only had the time it took to reach Heaven to come up with a slightly better story for his reports. He’d certainly never tell Crawly of such a silly mistake.


	6. I want to break free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this week is Housework. The husbands get ready to clean their new home the human way and get slightly mixed up as to what appropriate clothing is for such a foreign task.

An angel and a demon stand squared off against each other in what is a millennia long battle of wits and being at their wits end.

Aziraphale, feather duster in hand, gestures broadly over Crowley with an exasperated turn of the lips. “What on _Earth_ is this, my dear? You _do_ remember that we can change our accessories at a quick miracle? You hardly need to walk around with that ill-fitting thing attached to you.”

Crowley looks down at the bra he had carefully stuffed with decent sized oranges with a frown of annoyance. Not to mention an excuse to look away from where Aziraphale’s stocking-clad thighs are about to give him a very inconvenient heart attack. Or something else that was just as inconvenient in a tight leather skirt.

“This,” he emphasises with a gesture down at himself “is what humans wear to do housework in this century. Well… late last century. Either way not as a bloody 1800s working girl. Which, by the way, I think you got mixed up with the _burlesque_ version of the sodding maid’s outfit.”

And damn-bless- _something_ Crowley for being the one to encourage that particular practice. Trust Aziraphale to get his information about fashion from his little _French Postcards_. Apparently only his food needed to be authentically French. Not that Crowley’s complaining. He wouldn’t, of course. Not really. Only, it really is distracting to see so much leg… right up to the faintest peek of actual skin when the underskirt moves just so.

He comes back to himself with a feather duster in his face. “-en listening to me, Crowley?”

“Hmm? Yeah, absolutely. Not practical, you know.”

There’s a flash of triumph in Aziraphale’s eyes and Crowley isn’t certain he’s happy with what he just agreed to. “Exactly! There is certainly no way that leather is a practical thing to clean in. Or that… useless… cardigan… thing.”

Crowley again looks down at himself, offended. “Leaves my legs and arms free for cleaning. S’ the point, right? I mean yeah it’s a bit weird but humans _are_ and I now for a fact people clean in this. One of Freddy’s video things. Saw him vac up in it and everything. It seemed pretty straight forward.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow as he looks slowly over Crowley - half in judgement and half like he’s a meal to be savoured. When he licks his lips Crowley gulps loudly enough that he could swear the angel must hear it.

“Okay, dear boy. We both take a half of this lovely little cottage and whoever does the best job of cleaning without needing to change proves that their idea was most practical.”

“What? Don’t win anything else for out-cleaning you?” Crowley raises an eyebrow with a grin that’s a lot more cocksure than he feels.

Aziraphale’s lips twitch up in a smile that looks a lot more certain. “Well, I’m certain we can come to some decision together once I’ve worn you out.”

Crowley barely registers the soft chuckle as he moves to get the vacuum plugged in.


	7. And then there were three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Give us all the crack about THE ANTICHRIST
> 
> Crowley decides he isn't so certain on letting the plan play out as is, but when he returns to the nunnery finds three children and a Heaven of a mix up. What's a demon to do but take all three of them and try and talk his long time adversary into co=parenting with him?

It was gone midnight when Crowley finally reached the bookshop, pounding on the door with what felt like the last bits of his strength.

The gentle golden light as the door opened did little to improve his mood, which was a bugger all on it’s own even without the annoyed, nervous look Aziraphale was giving him. “Crowley, why didn’t you just come in? It’s rather foolish to draw so much attention to yourself.”

“I think it’s better if I show you,” Crowley cringed, knowing that the look he was giving Aziraphale would give him away.

The angel pursed his lips, possibly already half-guessing the right of things, but let Crowley lead him to the Bentley. And Crowley knew that look. It was the _I’m going to sit through this because you deserve it and I deserve to watch you squirm._

Surprisingly enough, when Aziraphale reached the car his expectant air dropped into something much more thoughtful, almost pleased. “Well, I suppose if you wanted to talk about your part in the end of the world, there are worse ways to encourage me to listen.”

“Wh- angel what are you on about? I-” Crowley froze. Looked into the backseat. Of course, Aziraphale had no idea how the Lord of the Bottomless Pit had been transported. No, instead Crowley looked like Yogi the fucking bear had gone on a Grand Theft Auto style spree; three picnic baskets lined up along the back seat.

“Shit, no. No angel, that’s... “ He rubbed at his eyes under the sunglasses. Satan bless it, he was going to have to _say_ it. “That’s the Antichrist. And… a couple of other… babies.”

The look he got then was much more like the one he had initially expected. “Excuse you?” Aziraphale hissed, eyes full of the kind of threat Crowley hadn’t seen in them in millennia.

And now was _not_ the time to be reminded just how hot under the collar that look got him. Focus.

“Look, I can explain. But… maybe inside?” Crowley shoved his hands into far-too-small pockets and inclined his head back towards the warmth and light.

“With _The Antichrist? _In. My. Shop?”__

__“Look, there’s two perfectly normal kids too” Crowley grimaced at the glower that sentiment earned him “and I really need to explain what’s going on.”_ _

__The angel let a long breath out of his nose like he wanted to pray for strength but didn’t dare draw attention to this fiasco. After a moment he reluctantly nodded once and strode back into the shop, leaving Crowley to fend for himself with the baskets._ _

__He determinedly gathered all three into his arms before swaggering his way into the shop. The incessant fussing that had formed a chorus on the drive over slightly quieting as the warmth and welcoming of an angelic space enveloped them._ _

__Shame, really. Crowley had been half hoping that the real Adversary would somehow be put off by the angelic presence and kick up a fuss. It would have made his life easier. Naturally, _because_ it would have made anything easier, he hadn’t been _expecting_ it, but still._ _

__He settled the three of them on Aziraphale’s desk, giving each a cursory look over to check they were okay._ _

__When he turned Aziraphale was staring at him, all expectation and command. “Well?”_ _

__Crowley swallowed. “Look. I couldn’t do it, alright? I mean- it’s one thing to work _towards_ bringing about the end of humanity and then it’s just pushed into your hands in a bloody wicker basket and… well. Suddenly the clock’s ticking on all that work just being gone from the world. Whole bloody lot of _them_ , too.”_ _

__“I…” Aziraphale paused, wrung his hands together, looked at the baskets for strength. “That’s how it’s supposed to be, of course. They all end up where they’re _meant_ to be, even if the route there’s a little more express than they might have planned on.”_ _

__“Yeah but think about this, right?” Crowley swiped at a bottle of wine left out on the side, filling two glasses that Aziraphale had laid out ahead of the change in plans._ _

__“Crowley!” He hissed. “You can’t drink! There are infants!”_ _

__Crowley waved his hand distractedly. “Miracle’ll see ‘em right. I need to _not_ be sober for this.”_ _

__“Then maybe you oughtn’t have done it in the first place.” The angel scowled, snatching the first glass from Crowley’s grasp and taking a deep gulp of it himself._ _

__One glass quickly turned into two, then three, as Crowley started to recount the deeds of the day._ _

__“Welllll I thought ‘bout giving the one that _no one_ thinks is th’ Antish- Andykr- ant- Satan baby back to one of ‘em but how’mah s’posed to trust them nuns huh? Already made a right arse up ‘f it.”_ _

__“But the baby _must_ do the- must fulfil his role. ‘S the plan, Crowley.” Aziraphale pressed, though after a couple of hours he sounded much less certain about it._ _

__He looked briefly over at the baskets, tentatively labelled Politicians, Humans and Bugger This. Aziraphale had to admit, he quite liked the implication that politicians weren’t entirely human but the fact _was_ that the trickery Crowley had relied on to convince the humans that nothing was amiss would fade. There would _need_ to be babies with them._ _

__And the Great Plan truly did need to move forward, whether or not Crowley made some persuasive arguments about books and plays gone unwritten._ _

__As if sensing Aziraphale’s hardening resolve Crowley sat up straighter._ _

__“We could look after all of ‘em!” He declared, though a moment later he looked a little surprised at himself, as though that wasn’t the outcome he was expecting._ _

__“And the two families missing babies, Crowley?” Aziraphale snapped, waspish._ _

__“Well mebby jus’ watch over them. Guardians. Or get the social in on ‘am a year or two in and adopt ‘em. ‘sn’t it angelic or s-methin‘? Take a few more even mebby - you can pass us off ’s the bloody family von Trapp.”_ _

__Aziraphale imagined a large house. A tin whistle and a veritable _squadron_ of children. He paled a little. “‘bs’lutely not. Out of the question. Couldn raise one of ‘em, n’vermind three. Run a circle round us.”_ _

__Crowley tilted his head to the side very slowly, a snake sizing up its next meal, and leaned in a little closer. “Thought you’d be a good _disciplinarian_ angel, but I dun mind doing that job if you prefer.”_ _

__He grinned, eyes hazy with wine and temptation. Aziraphale felt a shiver of heat flush his face and travel down his spine. “I, uh… That’s not- I.”_ _

__What he did mean had entirely fled the angel’s mind as he watched Crowley’s hand splay against his chest, keeping him held down with a firm pressure that Aziraphale was entirely certain he didn’t want to fight._ _

__His useless heart thudded in his own ears as Crowley slithered slightly higher against him; lips close enough to feel his breath when a truly evil stench filled the room and one of the babies started wailing._ _

__“Tha’s it! That ones the Satan spawn!” Crowley threw himself off the couch and away from Aziraphale. He spun so quickly to storm towards the baskets that he lost his tentative footing and crashed backwards._ _

__Right into something soft, warm and (very quickly) shaking slightly with laughter. “Silly serpent.” Aziraphale declared, turning the pliant demon in his arms just far enough to brush slightly long hair back over his ear. “Probably for the best. None of this would work; raising children without being found out. Impossible.”_ _

__Despite the declaration Aziraphale looked almost wistful, like he perhaps _wanted_ Crowley to win the argument. An excuse to spend the time together even if the end itself could no more be stopped than a mortal could stop a storm._ _

__Crowley stalked on shaky legs back over to the baskets and took his time calming little Politician. If it made Aziraphale look at him that way he _had_ to convince him to help with thwarting the Great Plan. And of course for the whole working to mess up Her plan thing._ _


	8. A most excellent Antichrist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic prompt: Crossovers
> 
> Crowley very nearly catches his mistake when delivering the Antichrist and it's down to some time travellers in a phone box to prevent this most heinous of fixes.

Crowley paused outside of the nunnery, something wary tickling at the back of his brain. Humans weren’t always the smartest of creatures but that one he’d spoken to had seemed ditzier than most. He didn’t exactly *want* things to go perfectly but it was still his arse on the line if it went balls up after all.

He dithered for a moment and in the exact second that he made up his mind to turn back and check on the nuns there was a bolt of lightning from the sky. The scatter-shot of electricity formed itself up into some sort of faraday cage as a box appeared.

A telephone box, but definitely an American style one. Had someone started on making a bloody knock-off of Doctor Who now?

He edged closer, looking over the lightning crackle of it that didn’t smell of ozone and angels. He couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of relief at that. Inside were two young men, probably barely adults. Definitely not a big budget filming crew.

As they stepped out the first waved with a bright smile. “Hail and well met, my dude. I am Bill S. Preston, esq and this here is my associate Theodore Logan.” The other waved with the same complete lack of guile, hair falling half into his face before he pulled it back. “Together we are the-”

“*Wyld Stallyns*.” Both declared, doing very heartfelt air guitar riffs.

“And we are here to tell you that you need to leave those Satan nun ladies to do their thing,” The dark haired one, Ted, took over. “It is a matter of most grave importance for the sake of the world as we know it.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and massaged at his temples, certain he was only parsing about half of what was going on. “Look, I’ve got a job to do here and I’m just making sure-”

“Yeah, you’re doing just the right job right now. You need to get back to your angel dude so you can plan for the future of his most chill excellency The Antichrist, who Rufus assures us is most certainly into good music and continuing the world.”

“I… are you actually speaking- what are you going on about? And what do you know about any bloody angel or Antichrist? Who sent you?” Crowley hissed, leaning in menacingly to the two of them who simply blinked with barely moving smiles.

“Our good friend Rufus sent us. You’ll both do great on your own if you let things carry on from here but it’s important that you do what you’re planning to do, not what you’re thinking about doing. Or something. He made much more sense of all this.” Bill shrugged.

“And he isn’t here because?”  
“Well, Rufus is technically totally on vacation. And besides, we have much more knowledge about England this far back in time. Our most excellent girlfriends, the princesses, have told us much of your strange customs and foreign lands.”

“...It’s England not bloody Nepal. And if I thought for a second either of you were bedding down with Princess Anne I’d give you my condolences but I somehow think it’s much more likely something much worse for my blood pressure is happening here.” Crowley sighed, ignoring the fact that he definitely didn’t have blood pressure in any human sense of the word.

“Well no it isn’t so simple. We can talk about it but the most important thing is that you cannot go back into that not-church, my dude. There’s going to be some rank demon dude in there later and you need to get moving with your friend. Those are the important bits we know.” Ted explained, eager to reel off what information he had.

Crowley sighed and rubbed at his temples, but honestly these two were probably less hassle to deal with than the nuns anyway. “Alright, there’s a pub down the road. We can get a drink and you can convince me of whatever madness this is.”

“Sorry Mr Demon, dude, we’re totally not legal for drinking. Just passed that big Two-Zero twenty” Bill declared with a grin and a riff on an imaginary guitar. “And besides, Ted’s dad would pitch the most *heinous* fit if he found out.”

Crowley looked over the both of them with a pointed look and a raised eyebrow. “You do much of anything that your father approves of?”

“Okay so my dad’s, like, perpetually most disappointed in me,” Ted agreed “but why make it worse, you know?”

Crowley put on his best tempter’s smile at that and slung an arm around each of the young men. “Come on, let me show you both some good old British hospitality while you’re here, eh? Then you can let me know what I need to do so you get what you want. Win-win, right?”

“Well.. you swear you’ll listen to us? The truth always sounds pretty spectacular to the newbies.” Ted hummed in consideration. Crowley grinned as he nodded, one temptation down.

“And it’s totally legal where we are right now? Don’t have to worry about the cops busting in like at some bogus rager?” Bill considered the thought.

“Yup.” Crowley popped the p with all his usual swagger. “And I don’t think your box there even has any rules about drinking and driving so you should be safe on that end too.”

With only the vaguest further protestations about some guy called Rufus, who they both seemed to respect more than their own fathers, he encouraged them down to the nearby pub and started a drinking session that would end up with him flat out on the bookshop floor crafting plans with Aziraphale about Armageddon and with the two Wyld Stallions somewhere in America in the year 2990 instead of 1990. It ended up being a lot to explain to the council but they were chill enough about it and got the two a detox and the correct route home.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Call Barring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24186073) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)
  * [[Podfic] A most excellent Antichrist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380513) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)
  * [[Podfic] Call Barring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26872594) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)
  * [[Podfic] I want to break free](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27223507) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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